


Knock-down, Drag-out

by Aurora Cee (SC182)



Series: Hit and Hustle [1]
Category: Fast and the Furious Series, Knockaround Guys (2001)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Closeted Character, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gangsters, M/M, Prostitution, Romance, mob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 06:29:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1972431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SC182/pseuds/Aurora%20Cee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the unlikeliest of places, you can find the things that keep you from being knocked down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knock-down, Drag-out

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Disclaimer: I do not own the characters herein. They are the property of Universal Pictures and 20th Century Fox, Justin Lin, Rob Cohen, and Gary S. Thompson. I'm just borrowing them for a moment.
> 
> Repost from 2007.
> 
> A/N: This is an old AU that crosses diverges prior to the events of TFATF( Brian/Paul Walker) and Knockaround Guys (Taylor/ Vin Diesel). There are two more stories in this series and they are complete.
> 
> Just a reminder of what these guys look like:[Brian](http://pics.livejournal.com/supercaptain182/pic/00001w9t) and [Taylor](http://i37.photobucket.com/albums/e69/supercaptain182/knockaroundguys_photos_1505-1.jpg)

It’s the same old, same old thing. Sitting in a bar drinking beers. Talking about the respect that seems to be lacking no matter what they do. Marbles tries to be funny. Scarpa manages to find a broad or two that he hasn’t screwed yet. And Matty…He’s got it the toughest. An old man that’s done bad, reformed but still connected. Matty lives in his shadow—no matter what and it’s a big damn shadow. He’s tough. He’s Benny Chains’ kid. Nephew of Teddy Deserve. A tough guy by birth, a knockaround guy by life.  
  
They all are.  
  
Taylor sits between them, waiting for the signals that always come as the night progresses. Signs that mean they’re getting closer to getting up to do it all again the next day. He saves his voice. Hunkers down, shoulders lowered, it’s an economy of space, just like money. He watches the crowd, finds mostly friendlies and waits for it all to be over.  
  
The minutes string together to knot into a couple of hours wasted. He’s got to go. Can’t wait too long, he remembers his mother comes in at nine thirty from bingo, and decides to make a move. She barely gets enough sleep as it is with her bad back and that pinched nerve bothers her leg. Him coming in extra late, despite tipping through the dark house like a ninja, always brings her straight awake. A lifetime in the City makes even the hardest sleepers come on-line at the slightest provocation; a gentle breeze might as well be a freight train.  
  
The ground outside the bar is slick. The wet thuds of his boots are loud against the sparse and distant sounds of the street. The van takes him home for just enough hours to find peace. He parks in the first space he sees, a couple of buildings down from his own walk-up. The distance doesn’t bother him nor does he worry that his van will be safe. Around here, he gets respect. Earned it with his fists and fight after fight.  
  
The difference between then and the present is that now he's a _real_ tough guy. Knows it. Accepts it. Lives by it. Breathes it in day after day and makes it a part of his physical being.

Walking down the block, there are barely any lights, much less people. But ahead, six cars down, there happen to be both.  
  
Beneath the cone of light, like an advertisement for sin, he stands there, waiting, watching. Even from a distance, he’s the most enticing thing Taylor’s seen in a longtime, if ever.  
  
Tall, lean—not skinny, healthy like a swimmer or a dancer. The burnished light from above reflects off the golden crests and swirls of his short and messy blond hair; natural or not, they're as eye-catching as their owner.  
  
In this city, everyone learns pretty early to never sneak up on anyone else. It’s an easy way to receive a kick to the balls or mace to the face. So he walks slow, giving himself enough time to peruse the merchandise from afar. It’s merchandise after all, because no one lingers around this time of night unless they’ve got something to sell. In this neighborhood, that’s no exception.  
  
He looks good in that bomber jacket. It’s old, so the collar's popped; the collar’s fur no longer visibly plush. The coat looks good with his hair and his tan. Taylor’s never had a type before, but tonight he can see himself changing.  
  
“Whatcha sellin’?” Taylor’s voice is dark and deep like the starless City sky.  
  
The blond man raises a single eyebrow and lets his eyes slide lazily and deliberately over Taylor. “Depends if you plan on buying.” He answers, with the practiced vagueness of a true hustler.  Where everything about Taylor is dark, the hustler is all light: from his hair to his skin to the wintry chill of his blue eyes.  
  
Taylor takes a draw from his cigarette. He can wait this out. Work this guy in his own way to a) make sure he doesn’t get taken, b) to stay out of trouble, and c) to finish this cigarette before he gets back to his Ma's.  
  
The hustler looks at him. Eyes focusing on him so intensely, they seem to rake over him and peer inside—soul searing--until they cut away. A white vine of smoke appears between lips which the hustler follows almost hungrily. His own lips scream to be touched, to be kissed, to be fucked. To have their softness proven.

“I've got all kinds of packages. Just like the Four Seasons without the mints on the pillows.” He tilts his head back on the pole, coat shifting open just a bit, giving Taylor a closer look at the _goods_.  
  
It's all looking good to Taylor. So he prods, “An hour?”  
  
“A buck twenty,” is the quick reply.  
  
It’s Taylor’s turn to look pensive as he contemplates the price. His ringed thumb and forefinger stroke the outer edge of his goatee as he weighs his options.  “Either you’re really good or you're overestimating your skills--” He takes another hard look over the hustler’s body. “Or lack thereof.” He concludes, figuring the hustler really isn't bullshitting him.

The hustler chuckles a small dry laugh, one that clears with the last drag from Taylor's cigarette. “Why don’t you find out?” He challenges, and Taylor stops in the middle of squeezing the filter between the tips of his fingers to give him another assessing stare. It's not often that he's challenged. Even with the guys, it's kept so light with him that smoke has more substance. Taylor can honestly say he likes the pro already.  
  
Taylor nods silently. Puffs his cigarette, flicks it away, and begins walking in darkness again. An almost indecipherable _you coming_ is thrown over his shoulder which has the pro falling in line.  
  
They move in silence. Just a pair of heavy feet clicking along in the rain. The pro waits at the bottom of the steps as Taylor moves up. The jangling keys open the front door to a room of darkness. He follows Taylor inside. The air is cool, surprisingly sweet like flowers and candy, not the usual scents associated with such a gruff looking individual. He spares a few looks around and waits for his next move to follow, unless the guy decides to begin things right at the front door.  
  
A head jerk towards the stairs and they’re climbing slowly to the top. Taylor’s not going to pause here and listen, not act like he’s sixteen with a broken curfew. He’ll definitely be  
quiet this time, because if his Ma gets up, he knows the old showing off his baseball collection excuse isn’t going to fly.  
  
He pushes the door open to the last door on the left. His hustler passes into the room before a light above head flares to life. The room is a fairly sizeable bedroom with a large bed taking most of the space, seems appropriate for a guy Taylor’s size. Weights occupy another corner. All cold and hard—solid, like their owner.  
  
The door sweeps shut with a mild swish, and it’s just the two of them alone for the next hour; an hour where he will get something that is so very far and in between for a man like him. Taylor rests against the door, leather whining from the sudden pressure, and he watches with the perfect ease of an expert. He follows the pro’s eyes around the room, when he senses that everything checks out, their eyes lock and the next step is clear. The bomber jacket falls to the floor. Broad shoulders, not thick like Taylor’s, transition into sloping curves of chest and a neat waistline. The white t-shirt is two sizes too small. Capable of covering the length that hot body, yet shows every nuance of musculature, every whisper of skin and potential for sex.  
  
As the edge of the t-shirt is rolled up and the skin beneath is shown to be a clear golden tone, Taylor takes the movement as a cue—walking closer, he shrugs off his jacket and stands in his long grey Henley.  
  
The sight must be impressive as the blond stops and waits, blue eyes shining with dark hunger and it's not the raw itch for another cigarette that brings him around. It may be an act, but Taylor knows hunger, true hunger, and the look in the Blondie’s eyes couldn’t be put there for any amount of money.  Just good old-fashioned pure unadulterated lust.  
  
Looking at what’s being offered, Taylor imagines it’s like driving a fast car: fast motion, sleek handling, and a ride that excites him everywhere, particularly his dick when it gets really good. 

Now they've got their roles. The hustler’s being paid to fuck; after a moment of hesitation that’s what he decides to do—fuck.  
  
Gold and not quite hairless, the pro’s chest shines like a natural source of light and he uses the opportunity to make his opening strike. The first touch is a kiss to the neck. A single kiss followed by another and another moving down Taylor's neck to the mouth of his shirt. It’s good, damn good. The pro smells of soap and that undeniable scent of man and Taylor fully transitions from half-soft to bust-a-seam-hard.  
  
The fingers that work him aren’t soft nor are they rough but confident in their movements, sliding over shoulders, down the curves of his arms, falling down the slope of back until those lean arms hang over the breadth of Taylor’s shoulders. That hot wet mouth is back on his neck, moving at its own speed, mapping, tasting, licking, sucking—not hard enough to bruise, just the right amount of pressure to make him hot.  
  
Taylor loses his shirt and goes to work on those too tight pants that the blond’s wearing, eager to get to the ass underneath. He’s not like Scarpa, with a different candle to deep his wick in every night, so when they’re done with round one of suck and jerk, Taylor’s ready to fuck.  
  
The quiet of it all is a little unnerving. He comes first as the blond kneeled and sucked and jerked with a couple of grunts and  comes with a sigh. In Taylor’s mind, this guy is a perfect ten or if not, it’s just a testament to how little Taylor gets and how gratefully he is for the advent of the present situation. The hustler follows his lead by coming with a sigh and a few hot jets against his stomach.  
  
It's the slowest hour of his life, the clock on his watch says he still has thirty minutes—thirty minutes to fuck like there’s no tomorrow. Taylor almost feels sorry for the guy, if he wasn’t paying for it, then Taylor could almost promise to be gentle because that’s just his way. His momentary sympathy dries up as the pop of the condom snapping snug around his cock reverberates in the room.  
  
Seconds later, they're on the bed; now they’re really fucking. Those once loose limbs are draped over him, legs spread and thighs wrapped around Taylor’s thick middle allowing Taylor to be pulled deeper inside but not quite deep enough. The peaks of stimulation are due to the right amount of heat and tightness, all of which are the recipe for good fucking without anyone getting hurt. But Taylor wants more and does not resist the primal urge to shove himself as deep as his lizard brain will allow.

He taps the hustler on the outer side of his knee. It's enough to get his attention.

The solution is so obvious that it causes his dick to twitch hard and the hustler tightens up around him. "Turn over," Taylor rumbles, commanding. “Please,” he adds a second later.

It's a nifty trick that they can manage without him sliding out as the hustler rises up on his knees. Then it's ready, set, go and his hands take position on the tops of those lean hips to do the steering and his dick twitches again, eager to go back to driving.  
  
He’s snapping in and out, face buried into the valley of the neck and shoulder, mind blank for once—no Benny, no brags from Scarpa, no bad jokes from Marbles, just him and this moment of feeling. The lean hips feel good under his hands and he holds on until the desire to touch those curls becomes too great. Sweat makes the hustler’s hair sink into a deeper golden shade far more coy than actual blond. Taylor is fixated by transition as the heat in the base of his belly grows hotter.

Taylor savors as much as he can. Commits most of it to memory because memory is his only resource that hasn’t run dry on occasion. So he tightens his hands on the hustler’s hips and preserves everything: the hard lines of his back, the dull glow of sweat prickling the base of his neck, the flush pooling in the small of his back, the wet sucking _pop_ that reverbs around them as Taylor strokes hard and deep, just like the best kind of filthy kiss.  
  
It’s a miracle that he can conquer the build-up. Just manages barely to throw his head back, his mouth open in a silent roar, and judder hips in a rapid staccato that interrupts the low conversation of heavy breathing.

There’s no kissing on the mouth after, an unspoken word among all pros.  
  
There’s soft and there’s hard, two things this man knows a helluva lot about.

And Taylor’s left breathless. For the first time in a very long time, he feels beaten and he grins against sweat soaked skin because the feeling is good.

Later, the blond man smiles as he’s walking down the steps. “Catch you later,” he says without making a show of pocketing the cash Taylor slips him inside the door. Taylor thinks not likely. But Blondie’s smile is infectious and Taylor doesn’t quite scowl as much as he watches him leave. He's friendly enough, giving a slight nod, because whatever will happen will just happen.

There are no guarantees.

* * *

 

He’s just put in a new machine in a little bodega a couple of blocks over. This time, he’s sure it works, and no excuses about broken machines or slow business are going to keep him from his money. There is no such thing as slow business or second chances with Taylor’s money.  
  
Luck is a thing far and between, so Taylor considers it a coincidence that the pro from a few nights past happens to be back in the neighborhood. Taylor stands here, in the doorway of the shop, hiding behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses watching him as he approaches.  
  
He’s sure Blondie will get it, receive the mental telegraph he’s sending. _Keep walking_ , it signals, but the longer he watches the more halfhearted the desire becomes. It’s not like he knows for sure, his memory of their conversation is limited to about twenty words. Expert, Taylor’s not. Wishing hopefully, he absolutely is.  
  
The hustler walks in his direction, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets and eyes averted to the other side of the street, moving at a pace that’s just outside of leisurely, closer to a stroll in deep thought territory. As he stands in the somewhat sunken doorway, Taylor realizes he’s not going to be noticed, passed by and ignored. It makes him angry, irrationally so.  
  
He scratches the back of his head, dipping it low, away from the sight of traffic on the street and people walking about; just low enough to still have the hustler in his line of sight.  
  
It’s five feet and closing with the blond still deep in his thoughts. Taylor watches, because he’s frozen to the spot. Mind drifting too, skin tingling from the underlining well of sweat; the feeling in his stomach is the same breed as the one he always gets before a fight: a twitching flutter, slow and uneven until it grows to a strong flap. It’s anticipation.  
  
The hustler reaches him, their bodies stand parallel for just a second, then the synchrony is gone. So he breathes deep and jumps the gun.  
  
“Hey!” His yell misses its intended receiver; its target is still moving farther away.  
  
He goes for it again, now standing on the line that divides the light and the shadows from the store’s doorway alcove. “Hey. Eh you--” It’s on the tip of his tongue to say _pretty boy_ and whistle. Because damn, he is pretty—beautiful, gorgeous—the best thing he’s seen on two legs with the right set of chromosomes in a while. Has the kind of looks that will keep Taylor occupied during empty nights where his knuckles ache and swell and he’s in want of another sort of relief.  
  
The hustler angles a look over his shoulder and stops when he sees who it is. The way he looks at Taylor when he fully turns around is guarded, eyes less bright, lids lowered. As if he’s waiting for the big shock.

Taylor says nothing as he licks his bottom lip fast and acknowledges the hustler with a nudge of his chin.  
  
The hustler remains in a guarded state. “Can I do something for you?” He’s asks with truthful eyes and a lying mouth that smirks.  
  
Taylor scrubs a hand over his face, sighs and steps out into the hazy New York sunshine. He walks the full four steps in silence that separates them. Head low, he half whispers, “Looks like I got the afternoon off, “and casts a look around before ducking his head and waiting for the hustler to take up his subtle proposition.  
  
The pro’s face assesses him thoughtfully before his lips quirk ever so slightly and the consensus of _why the hell not_ is reached. He looks at Taylor, blue eyes somewhat muted in the afternoon sun. He’s silent for a second before shrugging and saying, “Cool, I know I’ve got time, sure you’ve got enough?”  
  
A hawkeyed glance at the street across the way, the people moving towards him and a check of his peripheral has Taylor realizing that no one is around to stop him. He’s getting something he wants in broad daylight, and those feelings are soaring in his stomach.

He steps to the blond, close enough to pick up the faint whiff of some unnamed cologne and starts with, “Nothing, nothing for the next couple of hours.” Taylor sizes him up again, “You?”

It’s a question of consideration and speculation, one that subtly tries to suppress the worrisome thought of all the other johns that may occupy the hustler’s time. Taylor thinks in terms of _after_ , not concurrence, just _after_ their interaction or collision or transaction, or whatever, is complete. That perspective makes him feel better.  
  
Again, the hustler shrugs. The blond has him pinned under the intensity of his eyes. “Look man, if you want me, you’ve got me. You have a place in mind or do I have to improvise?”  
  
Around the corner and two buildings away from the bodega, there’s nothing but the abandoned shell of a formerly city-run housing project, rusted fire escapes, and rotting wood overhangs; all perfect for a quick and dirty.  
  
Taylor nods, “Let’s go.” He stalks away with the hustler moving in his shadow.

Any good fighter knows how to count, and Taylor’s been in enough fights to manage a count forwards and backwards, blows to the head and all. He’ll give the hustler this—the guy’s got skill and is making it hard to keep the count going. They’re seven minutes and thirty-four seconds into the action.

In the darkness of the alcove, Taylor becomes aware of two things—just feelings mostly: soft and warm, the rough scratch of calloused hands against his skin, the rhythmic back and forth snap of limbs singing in tune with the thrum of his pulse, and the blurry rush of almost losing count.  
  
Eyes partially closed with his head almost thrown back, he resists and watches the pro’s expression change from a flexible business front to a flushed, open lipped panting. He zeroes in on those keen blue eyes growing shiny and dilated.  
  
There’s a gritted out, “Christ,” from the blond, to which Taylor replies, “Don’t swear.”  
  
Taylor’s ready to swear, too. The blood rush in his ears along the sound of flesh rubbing against flesh is doing more than heightening sensory stimulation. Like a negative wave, it’s eliminating the ambient noise of car horns, creaking buildings, the wail of wind rustling through rusted fire escapes, the smell of garbage and life of the city—all gone as the hustler strokes his dick with sure curls of his fingers and forces him towards coming. The hustler awards him with a satisfied little grin that ticks up in the corners and that little look more than anything finally does Taylor in.  
  
When Taylor shoots off, his mouth is open in a muted roar, and all that sensation rises to the surface with volcanic intensity, making his skin burn and each ripple of his stomach result in the devastating eruption of hot splashes of come. For a few balmy seconds more, he’s milked to completion and feels himself floating detached from his body to heaven, possibly, maybe. Good sex is best when it instigates sacrilegious thoughts and this is the kind of sex that gets him thinking about the intersecting points about heaven, hell, and the heavy price of temptation in his two faith background.  
  
In the end, the count running in Taylor’s head is reset at the sight of the hustler grunting and biting back a moan. The pro isn’t playing it up by making his eyes shutter or scrubbing the heel of his free hand furiously into his worn denim at his fly. This may be work, but the guy’s only human and manages to feel something as a result of Taylor feeling something. He freezes with his eyes squeezed tight and for a moment, it looks like he’s seen heaven.

Now _that_ does wonders for Taylor’s ego.

  
“Fuck,” _his_ hustler hisses under his breath and rolls his eyes angrily, “I just washed these…Now I have to do ten blocks in these…shit.”  
  
Taylor feels a pang of sympathy. It’s his fault the guy’s stewing in his own juices, and as pleasant as it is too come with the force of a jet engine, it’ll be a real pain to stay in a pair of pants with a stain the size of the Hudson on the front.

“Shit, sorry ‘bout that…” Taylor offers, then considers the situation and his options, really, the hustler’s options. “I could, y’know, give you a ride or somethin’ ? I mean, I can, if y’ know which way you’re goin’?”  
  
The blond shakes his head furiously without a moment’s hesitation. He inhales a deep breath as he rises to his feet and is once again a vision of calm and completely cool. This guy has got to have a nickname, Taylor thinks. A few choice options funnel unbidden through the haze of his post-orgasm brain-- the Ice Man, Snowflake, Frost. They all fit.

Then those blue eyes are on him again, softening just a bit as they search his face. “No, that’s okay, Man. I’ll just pull down the jacket and it’s barely noticeable, hopefully,” the hustler says, cautiously.  
  
Taylor messes with the hem of his Henley, attempting to set himself to rights though he’s already fine. “Sure,” he agrees, trying to given an A+ performance in the face of being disappointed.

There are ten thousand reasons why this is a bad idea. Most of them involve getting seen by Matty, Scarpa, and, if things really take a turn for shit, Marbles. The folded bills between his fingers should be the end of it, but they’re not, because he finds himself asking again, “You sure? I could take you,” then adds, “I will take you.” He sounds to persistent even to his own ears and knows he should dial it back in the face of the pro’s resistance, but that course of action is easier said than done.  
  
The hustler zips up his jacket. In the isolation of the alcove, the zipper’s roll up the track seems harsh and final. Like the symbolic version of _that’s all, folks_.

Again, there’s another head shake. “I’m cool.” The blond spares Taylor a look, one that’s kind of soft and almost friendly. “I guess I’ll see you around.” He doesn’t wait for Taylor to say anything else, just takes the cash he’s earned rightly and walks towards the noise and light at the mouth of the alley.

Taylor watches everything, thinking that he’s once again feasted so the only place he can go from here is a return to famine. He savors the sight of the straight line of long back, lean shoulders, and the way the fickle sunshine shades the hustler’s lazy curls and waves.  
  
“Yeah.” Taylor answers too late. “Sure. Cool. Whatever.”

He rolls his shoulders. He has another count to keep.

* * *

  
His knuckles are sore and bleeding, split jaggedly across the bone worse on his right than his left. The reason is a matter of principle and universal causality, because every action has a consequence, and this consequence is the just response for trying to skimp a man like Taylor. He didn’t need a pop like Benny Chains to learn second chances were costly when growing up.

The bodega owner got a freebie before and a warning. Now he’s tried to screw with Taylor’s machines and his money for the second time. Taylor likes getting fucked as much as the next guy, but any fucking that goes down should not exclusively include his money. Now Ramirez has a busted counter top, no machines, and has gotten the ultimate privilege of kissing his greasy stack of bills goodbye.  
  
Taylor’s riled up and tense like a bull raring to strike, his breath coming in too short huffs to be healthy, and the only thing he can think of doing is pounding the living shit out of something. He scrambles to find something to take the edge off but his options are too few. It’s too early to drink. Matty and Scarpa are working. Hell, if Marbles isn’t high somewhere, then he’s probably flying that little crackerjack plane of his. His Ma is out doing her normal Tuesday thing—bingo with the other ladies from the block. Even she would be good company, because she’s his Ma, ever capable and ready to tell him to snap the hell out of it, ready to pop him with a wooden spoon or smack him on the back of the head if she has to.  
  
He keeps walking back to his van, managing to avoid tangling with any of the sidewalk traffic. Probably not a coincidence if anyone takes a hard second to absorb the rage rolling off him. Blood bends and skirts down and around the skin leading to his knuckles. Inside the shallow bloody valleys, the skin looks like mottled watermelon, little black spots dot the area like seeds instead of blood clots.  
  
Taylor needs to take care of his knuckles because they’re messy and hurt like a sonuvabitch. He’s less worried about the consequences of the mess and the damage. Sure, he’s seen his share of CSI episodes and has had more than few brushes with cops that wanted to pin a thing or two on him, so that he now has a justified, if not low grade, sense of paranoia that someone could come looking for him because of the trail he’s leaving. But in this hood, he doesn’t have to worry about it. Ramirez may be a bastard, but he’s snitch.

He’s almost to the van when a familiar voice says, “You should have that looked at.”  
  
This is as close to surprise as Taylor will get. He looks over his shoulder, his lips parting just a bit while his bleeding knuckles curl loosely in the palm of his other hand as he takes him the presence behind him. “Yeah, I know,” Taylor half-shrugs at the sight of his hustler. “ ‘s not as bad as it looks.” But indeed felt like it.  
  
Maybe someone’s listening to him up there, because just as he’s wishing for someone to come along to help him diffuse the staggering tension, here comes Blondie who is probably the last person Taylor should see. Taylor takes a long glance down the street in all directions for anything familiar. He’s looking for a reason not to look at those too blue eyes directly despite his apparent desire.  
  
It’s clear as far as he can tell and they really need to get off the street. Taylor knows the pro’s feelings on accepting rides which works in his favor because he’s too amped to drive. So hoofing it for a few blocks for a moment of solitude is doable given all other things considered.

“I’m going that way,” Taylor says and takes off. He catches the hustler’s breezy grin from the corner of his eye as he follows.

It’s just business, Taylor thinks, figuring the pro goes where the money goes. It figures that they’d be like in that regard, because everyone’s a whore for something.  
  
He’s not sure why he does it, why he turns around and fishes out his cigarettes and passes them over. They could have pretended for a few more blocks to be perfect strangers, but Taylor ruins it by giving the blond a smoke which is taken and lit with a small utterance of “Thanks”.  
  
They stand for a minute in the shade of an abandoned market space, some formerly yuppie-owned organic experimental nonsense that’s been popping up more and more all over Brooklyn, smoking silently. Taylor’s attention is divided between three points: the street, the hustler, and his knuckles.  
  
Blondie stubs out his smoke which has burned down to the filter and gives Taylor a look that speaks of silent frustration. “Be right back,” he says, before disappearing up the block. The guy moves fast.  
  
The cigarette is only half-working. He’s calmer, yes, but feeling stupid for making a simple thing increasingly complicated. This is another commonality: the fact that they share turf. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t want to think about it, the possibility that there have been other men where he’s been standing. This spot feels like something _special_ , just like it’s meant for him.

Taylor doesn’t get to simmer over his thoughts for much longer because the blond’s back with a generic first aid kit in hand and attempts to surrender it when Taylor moves to stub out his own smoke. Apparently, he has another thought and pops the case open then proceeds to bandage up Taylor’s fingers with the skill and speed of an ER nurse.

He doesn’t flinch from the sting of alcohol on his wounds. His focus is trained elsewhere and given the lack of prying eyes, it’s settled on watching Blondie, particularly his mouth. There’s something about his lips, a unique softness that lingers after every kiss, no matter how rough or sloppy. Compared to Taylor’s mouth, the pro’s lips are only slightly supple, not nearly as lush, but it’s enough to cause a lingering tingle over every inch of skin that they’ll drag over.  
  
They’re perfect in a way. Just as perfectly screwed up as the blond has to be. The guy turns tricks for a living which just ain’t something people decide to do for the sheer pleasure of it. Things can’t be too perfect if it’s come down to this. Taylor knows the economy sucks, but damn if there aren’t a few shitty jobs in the wanted section.  
  
“When does it not,” replies the blond as he finishes smoothing down the tight line of tape over the gauze covering Taylor’s knuckles.

Taylor lifts his eyes and throws the blond a quizzical look that lasts until he realizes he must have spoken his thoughts aloud.

“True.” He inspects his bandaged hand, admiring the pro’s skills. “You do this often?” It’s another loaded question which the pro picks over carefully.

“Enough to know when things are taking a turn for unhygienic.” The hustler smirks and brandishes the first aid kit like a model on the midday showcase shows.

It’s silly and it’s enough to get Taylor started chuckling in scratchy exhales. All the tension melts away without any clothes being shifted or parts touched. But Taylor feels so good that he pays the pro double. It’s worth it.

* * *

 

The third time, it’s a Tuesday and somehow all Tuesdays from then on become synonymous with surprised blue eyes, knowing grins, and blowjobs during bingo.

He likes the feeling of a pair of lips on his and on him. It’s been far too long’s since he’s had a real kiss. It’s miles away from his usual: pecks of familial devotion or brief busses of friendship. Taylor figures they’ve made it to some professional milestone when the kisses along his neck don’t take a sharp turn to return south but instead continue traveling north over the neat lines of his goatee up to his mouth.

It’s a good kiss.  
  
Taylor pulls back licking his bottom lip, trying to register the familiar flavor. “You taste like cigarettes.”  
  
The hustler shoots back, “So do you,” which causes both of them to smile.  
  
This professional hurdle they’ve crossed means that the pro should also be giving Taylor something else. Something that is long overdue. Anyone who says they’re paying a hooker for conversation is either a liar or very kinky, and Taylor’s not much of either.  
  
So he asks, “Gotta name?”  
  
“Yeah,” the hustler bobs his head and slides to the right to rest inches away from Taylor’s shoulder.  
  
Not to be distracted, Taylor rotates until he’s the one standing in front, keeping his eyes trained on the pair of shifting blues that hold him steady as he closes in. “Can I have it?” Taylor circles again, trying to temper his excitement.

He takes the silence as a good omen. Behind the cool façade, he can see the pro weighing his options, looking for the downsides of giving Taylor this information, and it’s a reasonable series of action, even if it leaves Taylor feeling just a tad annoyed that it takes so long to make a choice. He has to remember that the smart man doesn’t give his trust freely; he makes others earn it, and Taylor has to wonder what the hustler’s cash threshold is for earning his.  
  
“It’s…” His pro starts and then takes a second to reconsider silently. He eases back into Taylor’s space, so close that barring a couple of inches, they’re almost nose to nose, and it’s just fine for him to conduct his search and find what he’s looking for.

The stroke of his eyes is practically tangible over the contours of Taylor’s face. He can feel the way they skirt the neatly trimmed edges of hair on his chin and move up to the broad slope of his nose and down the broad planes of his cheeks. His lips get another glance, whisper soft like a kiss, and the answer appears to be found.

“It’s Brian,” the hustler finally supplies and leans away to stuff his hands into his pockets. It’s his default stance.  
  
Brian. Good name, a solid name. One better than the ones Taylor dreamily assigns when he’s sprawled over his bed world weary and prepping himself for another go of it.

Brian flicks his gaze to Taylor’s jacket and gnaws the corner of his lip, clearly hungry for something. “Can I have another smoke?” Taylor surrenders the pack that resides in the inner pocket of his leather jacket and makes a mental note to snag an extra pack the next time he visits the bodega. He should think about quitting about doesn’t.  
  
He watches a crack in a window and lights up. “Can I ask you something else?” Taylor asks.  
  
Brian shrugs as he inhales a languid puff which could mean just about anything. Then he flicks his fingers in a _c’mon_ gesture since it’s Taylor’s dime anyway and seems to wait for Taylor to get to his question. “Shoot.”  
  
“Am I your only _one_ right now?” There’s no need to pussy around with the question. When presented with the obvious—Brian’s looks and talents—it’s not hard to imagine that he’s got a steady client pool, even if the thought makes Taylor’s skin crawl and the skin between his knuckles itch.  
  
An amused look slides across Brian’s face, the sort of look that’s reserved for puppies and balloon animals which aren’t in the same league as Taylor. Brian simultaneously laughs while blowing out hazy smoke rings. “Yeah,” he admits with another easy grin, “You’ve caught me during a down period. So no worries, looks like I’m all yours for the moment.”

All his. Just Taylor’s. That finally sits right with him. The sudden swell of relief and satisfaction is just as heady as a couple of good drinks.  
  
In less than five minutes, they’ve made more progress than all their months of meeting combined, so he figures it’s his turn to offer up something other than a smoke or two. “I’ll give you a ride.”  
  
Brian’s eyebrows climb upwards sharply and it’s clear that he’s already recircled his wagons to back to the proverbial no to going anywhere in Taylor’s van. Reluctant just ain’t a good look on him.

Brian starts off trying to placate and be inoffensive but the thing about being inoffensive is that it rarely works, so Taylor in turn tries to marshal his temper and remain cool.

Brian sits up with his hands held in an appeasing gesture. “I gather that you’re an okay guy. More than okay, actually, but--” He gives the van the hairy eyeball like it may swallow him up if he’s not carefully and glances back at Taylor. “Rule Number One in unofficial hooker handbook says never get in the van,” Brian replies with deadpan delivery and finality.  
  
It’s less shock and more awe that settles over Taylor and sets him off laughing so hard and so loud that it’s a wonder if Brian hasn’t considered hitting the bricks, then he has now and a little faster than before. Taylor’s bugging out in a good way, of course.  
  
When he can shore up enough calm to staunch up his chuckles, Taylor remains where he is on his side of the van, eyes forward and carefully assessing. “I could pinky swear that I’m not some serial killer or anything else that’s fucked up.” He’s ready for the punchy comeback as soon as he lets the optimistic crap fly out of his mouth.  
  
Brian rolls his eyes and croons sarcastically, “Says the man in the van.”  
  
Taylor slides his hands off the wheel and settles them at his side then shrugs. His leather jacket whines as he shifts and he almost regrets wearing it, finding it suddenly too cumbersome, loud, and out of place during this part of the year. It’s a stupid distraction because he’s not ready to see Brian leave and really wants him to stick around. He won’t beg but he’ll work it so that Brian knows that he wants him to stay, for cash or not.

“Then how ‘bout I just walk with you...” The seventh grade option it is.  
  
Brian seems to get it and contemplates Taylor’s counteroffer which appears better received than the first. He knows he’s winning the second he catches the way Brian’s eyes shift and sparkles, not hide and go flat like before. Then he’s smiling too and it feels good.

  
Brian serves up another cutting smile then settles lower in his seat, looking dead ahead and away from Taylor. “Hell, why not? It’s a free country. Do whatever you want.” He flicks his gaze up and away again like a firelight in the presence of a humming glow. “Just tell me one thing.” Then those baby blues are back on Taylor.  
  
“Yeah?” He’s curious, very much so.  
  
Brian drops his gaze to Taylor’s hands which are still settled in his jacket pockets. Taylor pulls them out slow and evenly like he’d do for the cops when being stopped. Rolls them out slow and steady so that nothing he doesn’t say ends up being misinterpreted.

“This is a nonstarter, I guess,” Brian mutters, “Just whatever…you’re not married, are you? It might be a stupid question now. I mean, the cart and the horse and everything else have already left the station, but a person has to have some standards. Professional integrity being what it is...”  
  
Taylor scratches the back of his neck and exhales loudly, somewhat relieved by the question. “Naw, I’m not married. It’s just me.” The other details that make up his life he’ll save for later.  
  
“I didn’t see the ring or a mark, so I was just wondering. Problem solved, right?” Brian opens the door. “Let’s go.” Taylor doesn’t hesitate, just follows Brian’s lead.

Brian smiles more after that, reveals more pretty white teeth as a nice summer flush creeps up his face. If his heart is beating faster, that’s cool, because so is Taylor’s and the heat’s not the reason.

* * *

  
The next time they go at it is in the back of the van. It’s sloppy and fast and they come together in an almost desperate tangle of limbs like a couple of teenagers macking for the first time. It’s fun, exciting and messy as hell. Taylor doubts he’ll ever get the smell of sponge and sweat out of the back. Truth be told, he doesn’t really want to.  
  
He sees Brian off with promises to hook up again soon, though Brian keeps his promises vague as he’s got to book it up to Spanish Harlem for an unspecified and wholly unexplained gig. Taylor shakes off the thought of what that gig could be when he steps into the house and hears the television playing. Taylor leans in the doorway watching his mother sneer at the contestants on the Price Is Right. “What an idiot,” she yells, remote in one hand and her smoke in the other.  
  
He comes up behind her to place a kiss on her cheek. “Ma, you shouldn’t be smoking.” She stopped jumping at the sound of his voice a long time ago. Now she just swats at him playfully and cuts her eyes at him like only a mother can.  
  
She smiles and pulls a drag off her cigarette and holds it between her fingers. “And you should remember who the parent is.” Her Brooklyn accent snags and rips the edges of her words, tough and hard like only a lifetime in the heart of New York could make a person. One manicured brow arches up challenging him on the matter. Taylor continues to grin, knowing well enough when to back off.  
  
That speech has lost some of its bite a long time ago. She started when he was standing on the cracks between being a kid and a teenager and holding down two and then later three jobs. Back then, she cuffed him a couple of good ones and promised to beat his ass in Sicilian and Hebrew for starting his own habit, then eased off when he didn’t pick it up again until he was twenty-one and fresh off a six month bit upstate.

It’s a constant battle, one where an uneasy détente has settled in and keeps things easy. Now she eyes him under heavy lids and silently passes her cigarette over. Taylor puts it between his lips and waits, allowing the last drags to fill his lungs.  
  
Finally, she watches a contestant luckily underbids the showcase by a dollar and says causally, “You shouldn’t smoke either. It’s a terrible habit.” She switches out her cigarette for a magazine, a gossip rag probably, because she and her friends couldn’t get enough of the spiraling ridiculousness of the tabloids.  
  
“Yeah, I know,” Taylor grins back with the smoke tucked into the corner of his mouth.  
  
She drops the magazine across her lap and casts her son a look that has always come to forecast trouble. He starts wondering if he hasn’t been careful enough. If she’s finally going to pull the trigger and just ask about who he’s been doing lately. Thinks maybe he gave himself a way somehow.

Taylor looks away. No matter what that look means, he’ll own up to it. She taught him to be a man like that. He takes a final hard drag off the smoke and readies himself for the shot.

“What’re you doin’ tonight?” His Ma needles, eyes back on Bob Barker and listening to the spay-and-neuter your pets spiel.  
  
He exhales and clears the air with his hand. “Going out. Why? Need something?”  
  
His mother sighs, already deep in the key of longsuffering. “Well, I was talking to Bridgette—” his mother’s friend who believes she could play yenta to just about anyone. “—and she told me she has a niece about your age.”  
  
He cringes and plays it off by rubbing his temple like he’s got a headache brewing which he will have if this conversation continues. He’s been a grown man for much longer than most. Like a good son, he takes care of his mother, does anything and everything she needs, but draws the line at matchmaking. He knows that sharp gleam in his mother’s eye is the desire for grandchildren that just won’t be happening soon, if ever.  
  
His situation is hard to navigate and Taylor knows from years of experience that offering unsolicited information does more hurt than good, so he keeps his explanation vague. “I’m seeing someone.” Taylor pitches his voice carelessly low like the smoke’s burned his throat.  
  
Her back straightens sharply and then she turns around fully in her chair. “Really?” That’s a complete surprise to her. Taylor doesn’t hide anything from his mother. He volunteers information, because he’s incapable of fully lying to her. No matter how bad it is, he always shares it with her. So the look on her face is equal shades amused surprise and genuine sadness.  
  
“Yeah.” Taylor nods and uses the cigarette to keep his mouth shut.

“So…” She draws the word out to fill the void left muted television. “Do I get to meet ‘em then at least?” Taylor shrugs nonchalantly. “Taylor, if you can’t bring ‘em around your family…” she adds, haltingly. “Then I’m concerned about what that says about ‘em.”

He isn’t in the mood lie out all the reasons why Brian can’t meet his family or if he even wants to. He hasn’t paid the last couple of times they’ve hooked up. Wishful thinking perhaps or maybe Brian’s waiting to settle a larger debt.

“Can I get a description then?” If he doesn’t give his Ma something to satisfy her curiosity, she’ll be on the mystery of his unknown hook-up like a dog with a bone.  
  
“Yeah, no problem.” It’s not hard to conjure up a picture of Brian in his head. He’s spared more than a few passing thoughts about Brian over the last few months, even more after he’s finally rewarded with a name. He’s played this game long enough to know it’s just a matter of taking his time in inserting the right neutral pronouns and descriptors. Her reaction will be less about what he says and more about how he actually says it.

So his voice loses its gravel and goes soft, almost shy. “Tall, blond, gorgeous blue eyes, and absolutely beautiful.” All true, though he imagines Brian would laugh and be a dick if he could hear Taylor talk about him this way.  
  
She seems satisfied mostly; then again, she’s the one who taught him how to fight, so she knows all facets of fighting dirty. He should have guessed her next move before she makes it but he doesn’t. Of course she pulls the Matty card.

“Has Matty met this special someone?” If he says yes, then he’s being a bad son. If he says no, then there must be something wrong with this special person, because he tells Matty everything like he does with her.  
  
She has him in trapped in a proverbial corner. So what can he do? Taylor gets up kisses his mother’s forehead and musters up the most innocent expression a muscle bound tough guy like him can affect. “Naw, Ma. But I promise, if I think it’s worthwhile, you’ll be the first person to meet ‘em, capiche?”  
  
“Got it.” Smirking in a knowing fashion, she pats his cheek. “Go out with your friends and stay out of trouble.”  
  
“Trouble?” He feigns a look of mock hurt. “You know I’m as innocent as they come,” he teases, once again laughing and free of tension.  
  
“Yeah, you’re a perfect angel, My Angel.” She kisses him on the cheek and sends him on his way.  
  
This conversation isn’t the freedom he wants but it’s the tacit permission he needs. Gives him more freedom with Brian and what he really wants. Maybe he’ll catch up with Brian after he checks in with Matty and Scarpa. Just maybe Brian’s done with his Spanish Harlem thing and wants to hang or whatever.  
  
Or Maybe not. Maybe he’s just pushing for something that’s just not there or ever going to be something other than what it is. From the beginning, he knows making this a _thing_ would be dangerous for innumerable reasons. _Things_ like theirs easily turn into routines which turn into habits and then addictions and bigger problems. Just ask Marbles.  
  
That’s the reason he never smokes anything harder than a cigarette or drinks anything stronger than beer. Some mistakes, like his Old Man’s, aren’t worth repeating.

He takes a final draw from his cigarette and has to wonder, if worse comes to worst who’ll be more accepting: his mother or a bunch of tough guys. The cigarette burns, charred black and grey; the Sopranos did it, put someone like himself into a situation like this. He snubs his smoke out and remembers with a sniff and leashed sigh that this is real life and not a T.V. show. Tough guys come and go, the simple fact remains that dead is dead, and that’s one thing Taylor is trying to avoid; it’s bad for his health.

* * *

 

Every Tuesday thereafter, Taylor drops by Brian’s place which is located along the border between Red Hook and Bed-Stuy. How he finds the place, Brian never says, and definitely doesn’t have an issue with being one of the sparingly few white boys on the block. He just goes with it and gives cheery head nods and shout-outs to people that most wouldn’t expect him to know. It’s just another thing about a Brian. Like a chameleon, he can fit in wherever he goes.

Sometimes, Taylor stops by on Thursdays, too. Eventually, his visits shift to Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, and any other day he can make it.  
  
Brian’s place surprises him. Taylor doesn’t expect it to be neat, because Brian never gives him that impression of being very well put together. Instead, he finds a decent place with all the essentials. It’s sparse and neat in a way that comes from not possessing too much to clutter it up. There’s enough space for two people to be comfortable, a T.V., a chair that passes as an EZ-Boy, and a collection of car posters, models and magazines all over the place.  
  
It’s a space that Taylor fits in well enough. Brian lets him in and can tell him to go when he feels like it but he lets Taylor stay instead.  
  
After that, there’s no more counting; things just are. When Brian sees Taylor or if Taylor happens to see him first, it’s simple: Brian waits—relaxes, doesn’t look too eager and waits for Taylor to come to him. Always lets Taylor initiate it, because who knows who’s watching, and each, in his own experience, has learned hard lessons about being careful always.  
  
Brian never asks deep questions or probes why Taylor’s cautious and neither does Taylor needle Brian. They just get each other and that’s enough.

One night he’s leaving the bar with Matty. It’s a night where the status quo rules: Scarpa finds a chick or two and heads out for a night of action and Marbles tags along or slinks off to do a hit of coke when he thinks no one is watching. This week, he’s trying to stay sober so he’ll probably just follow Scarpa. They were all having a good time until Uncle Teddy walked in and Matty went from normal to nose-diving in defeat in three seconds flat.  
  
Teddy always claims to be looking out for Matty, but Taylor knows better. Teddy will talk out of both sides of his mouth: one side is all fluff and shiny shit and the other side tries to screw you. Messing with Matty is akin to messing with Taylor and it pisses him off to see his best friend—his brother—go from being up so high to crashing so low. Teddy will get his one day.  
  
So they walk and Taylor puts seeing Brian off for a while later, realizing he’ll be a bad friend if he doesn’t put some time in with Matty.  
  
The street is empty or almost quiet as they walk. “You wanna hang out?” Matty asks, shuffling his feet aimlessly as he continues to reel from Teddy’s latest round of mind games.  
  
“Hang out?” Taylor chuckles. “What are we, twelve? You want me to dig out the old Atari? Play some space blasters with the low D graphics and black and white colors.” Taylor allows Matty to slug him in the arm as comeuppance for acting like a dick.  
  
“Don’t be an asshole,” Matty snaps affectionately and then slings an arm over Taylor’s wide shoulders. “Y’ know I’d still kick your ass, right?”

Again with the wishful thinking. “The machine is old and busted but I’m certainly not. So unless I’m going to keel over as soon as I dust it off, I gotta say you don’t have a chance, Matty D.” Like old times, it’s about shooting the shit and rolling with the world’s knocks.

They don’t always have sex. Sometimes, they just talk about nothing in particular, but enough so that they begin to know each other.  
  
“You’re not from here.” Taylor drops his observation freely.  
  
“Yeah?” Brian says without confirming or denying Taylor’s observation. He wants Taylor to earn what he knows about him, so he’ll make him work for it.  
  
“So where are you from? California? Florida maybe? I know it’s gotta be somewhere you get can get and keep a tan.” A couple of months of hard winter and yet Brian still looks like he’s been hitting the beach between the patches of sleet and steel gray clouds.  
  
“Arizona for about a minute then California.”

So Taylor’s right. “Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah.” Brian confirms. “I came east because I needed a change.” 

“Bet you didn’t imagine yourself leaving Cali as a kid and coming to the Big Apple.”  
  
That loaded smile slips onto Brian’s face. It promises a thousand hidden secrets and a thousand more half-truths. “Never would have imagined that. You know I wanted to be a cop when I was a kid.” Brian makes the declaration with a level of resignation that sounds ugly and broken. It reminds Taylor of Matty.

The declaration is surprising, considering Brian’s now on the other side of the law and a repeat offender at that. Taylor can admit he likes him better that way.  
  
Brian settles in close, his chest to Taylor’s back and drapes over him. His fingers take a slow path, tracing the six black points that comprise Taylor’s star. He whispers into the back of Taylor’s neck, “It’s beautiful.” Nothing about Taylor has been beautiful, except for the way he fights—all hard fists and perfect angles of execution. Brian’s always beautiful, day or night; he’s golden, cool, smooth, and he feels just right from all sides. It’s a perfect situation. So he steps back into the moment and relaxes in the touch of Brian’s fingers on his arms.

Brian’s voice pulls him out of his head. “I don’t have many friends. I got out of California before I could get myself into too much trouble. Arizona was pretty much the same.”  
  
Taylor shifts beside him on the bed. He stubs out his cigarette and looks over at Brian. “What do you mean you don’t have friends? I’m your friend.”  
  
“You’re my friend,” Brian repeats as his smirk explodes into a massive grin.

  
“Yeah, I’m a very friendly guy.”  
  
Brian grins through a laugh and kisses the side of Taylor’s neck. “The friendliest.” It was only right that he returned the friendly gesture. “Thanks for being the welcome committee.”

 “Anytime,” Taylor says, then kisses back.

 It’s a perfect situation.

* * *

 

They’re always learning about each other.

Brian knows Taylor likes his shoulders rubbed when he’s pissed. He definitely likes how Brian can work out the knots that lock up between his shoulder blades with strong hands and impeccable accuracy. Taylor knows Brian likes to be touched and talked to. Likes how Taylor’s voice sounds when he’s on the cusp of sleep and can always fall asleep first from listening to it.  
  
There are the less than happy moments. Taylor is used to taking care of the people around him. When this thing between them shifts from being casual to totally exclusive and the cash he used to leave ends up back in his pocket or never requested again, the change puts Brian deep inside the circle of people Taylor takes care of, which triggers a reaction opposite to what Taylor expects.

Brian’s either fiercely independent or stubborn as a mull, which just depends on the day, Taylor figures. Being added to the subconscious list of people that Taylor cares for isn’t eagerly accepted. In truth, it pisses Brian off.  
  
The lesson is learned quickly and particularly hard after the discovery of the groceries in Brian’s second leg fridge is made. The result of the discovery in the fridge is door being slammed shut so hard that all the sheet-rock walls rattle ominously.

The gesture isn’t meant to be a slight in the least, just the result of another observation that showed Brian’s fridge was as empty as the land in the Mojave Desert. So when Taylor’s doing his rounds at the bodegas checking the machines, he figures why not and buys some things to make the icebox less depressing.

When Brian charges out of the kitchen, eyes blazing like someone just insulted his mama, Taylor sits up and takes notice. “What the hell are those?”  
  
“Where?”  
  
“In the fridge?” Brian replies frostily.  
  
Taylor knows it should be a non-issue but Brian’s pissed off face says otherwise. “Just some stuff I picked up at the bodega.”

“I didn’t need those. I could’ve bought my own groceries.”  
  
Patiently, Taylor explains, “I just thought you could use some until you bought your own.”  
  
That seems to shut up Brian for the moment and Taylor thinks they’ve come to an impasse or possibly a return to rights. Of course not, he should know better. “You know,” Brian starts in a glacial tone, “I do have another job. One that I don’t lie on my back for.” Like a jab to the solar plexus, it takes the air out of the room.  
  
Taylor turns around to fully see Brian. “I didn’t say you didn’t.”  
  
“I keep the laundromat up and running, fix everything there and in the rest of this building. So I don’t need to you buy me things.” _Don’t need you trying to buy me._  
  
Another thing Taylor likes about Brian is his steadfast cool. It’s familiar and matches Taylor’s stony temperament. But it’s like a spectacle of nature to watch it switch to the opposite end of the spectrum and burst forth like a volcanic eruption, hot and fiery and freaking terrific when aimed appropriately.  
  
Taylor knows when to relent. “I didn’t know and I’m sorry.” He brings himself to say.  
  
The fury directed at him thaws some and Brian’s slides back to being mellow. “That’s okay. Just ask or something next time. Just ask.”

* * *

 

This is the last stop where he hopes everything will be all right. His tolerance for anything other than _all right_ is dropping faster than the temperature in late December. He’s got one of those feelings again. The type that rises from an unformed urge to a literal instinctual scream to lie low, just quit while he still can.

The feeling is reminiscent of the one that comes before the first punch is thrown and hovers there at the edge of his senses. Taylor’s not dumb enough to assume that someone isn’t out to get him; it just feels more right—more within the limits of the cosmic alignment like his mother would say, that there is still someone out to get him but that it’s Matty who needs him to watch his back.  
  
He always does anyway. Matty never asks why, Taylor doesn’t bother to explain himself. Things are simple like that and they’re closer than brothers because of it.  
  
Today is the type of day where Taylor realizes that shit will only roll downhill and he just needs to take cover in the meantime. Matty’s at an interview, hopefully one where they’ve never heard of Benny Chains which Taylor seriously doubts.  
  
He won’t be the one to kill Matty’s dreams. He’ll always back them anyway he can.  
  
So he makes his way over to Brian’s. It’s his Ma’s Mah Jong day so she’ll be gone until almost sunset, so he’ll dodge any new attempts to pry information out of him. After having to bust up another machine to prove a point, Taylor is not in the mood for any more questions.  
  
He stands outside Brian’s door, poised to knock, when Taylor hears Brian’s voice through the door. “I can’t, Rome.”  
  
Rome? The name seems familiar. Rome. Rome. Rome. Taylor ciphers through his thoughts until he can place it, all the while set to knock on the door. Then it comes back to him: Rome, short for Roman, Brian’s equivalent of Matty.  
  
This is Rome who Brian says has been on lockdown for a couple of years. He continues to listen. When Taylor doesn’t hear a second voice respond, he realizes that Rome must have decided to reach out and touch Brian.  
  
“No, I can’t come pick you up….Why? Because I’m not in Arizona anymore. Before you ask, I’m not in Cali anymore either.” Brian explains.  
  
Whatever they’re talking about has pissed Brian off, because he’s being loud. “Naw cuz, I didn’t get busted or anything. I’m out in New York….Yeah, that one.” Brian sighs audibly. “Yeah, yeah, you too. Are you going to stay with your mom? Just give me an address and I’ll send you something.”  
  
The call ends and Taylor wonders what Rome has asked for, probably money, especially if he’s just getting out of the clink. He waits a couple of seconds then knocks on the door. He can easily hear Brian walk across the apartment towards the door. When the door opens, he’s leaning against the frame.  
  
Instinctively, Brian knows that Taylor listened to the call. How much he heard, he can’t be sure and doesn’t ask. Brian leaves the door open and walks into the kitchen and Taylor follows silently, already forgetting his previous desire for a back rub. He watches Brian walk around the tight space with that unique brand of nervous energy that comes from having nothing in particular to do and too much on his mind.  
  
Taylor forgoes beating around the bush and leaps over it. “Do you think you should? I mean, can you afford it?” He still doesn’t know what Rome asked for but he can guess it will set Brian back.  
  
Those blue eyes cut into him, pinning him into place. “You’d help Matty out if he needed it.” Brian states, absolutely correct and puts Taylor back into the thick of his other problems. It’s kind of weird hearing him talk about Matty when they’ve only met once.  
  
They met by accident while Brian was fixing the van’s engine. Of course, the sight of someone other than Taylor buried beneath the van’s hood was more than enough cause for Matty to investigate.  
  
There’s no need for him to make introductions. Brian wins Matty over by being cool and rubbing off some of his breezy personality in the short exchange. So that nagging worry that Taylor’s had where Brian and Matty meet and someone tastes someone else’s knuckles doesn’t pan out.

In the end when he interrupts their meeting and Brian eases off to let them talk. He does come back though for his shirt, and Taylor just has to watch him walk back inside the building with his back straight, tanned, sweat rolling over his muscles in fat drops and his jeans set way too low on his hips. It’s Taylor who gives it all away.  
  
Matty doesn’t say anything when he catches him looking, but a couple of days later, just comes out of left field during a game of pool and says while his eyes are trained on his stripes, “I like ‘em.” He doesn’t say any more or any less, but he says enough so that Taylor knows he’s cool with it.  
  
Back to the present and Brian’s right: Taylor would give Matty anything he needed if he needed help. “Yeah, I would.”  
  
Ice mood is back into effect. It radiates off his body through every pore, from the way he stands to the space between them, and darting glances at Taylor and everywhere else. “Rome’s like my brother. Since the garage isn’t going to happen anytime soon, I’m going to do what I can for him. Just don’t…” Brian stops short.  
  
“Don’t what?” Taylor snaps back, lowly.  
  
Brian shakes his head, clearly annoyed but moderately calmer. “Just don’t try to talk me out of it. I need to do this.”  
  
Taylor cuts the distance between them slowly. Taking hold of Brian’s arms, he can feel the tension in Brian’s muscles. Under his hands, Brian nearly vibrates. He hasn’t said how he feels, he figures his actions speak more for him anyway. He doesn’t throw the word _love_ around, not like Scarpa who’s in love with someone new each day of the week, and he hasn’t had all that many experiences where he’d want to use it, but this is one of those cases where he wants to.  
  
If only that ball of tension in his stomach would allow it.  
  
“Just do what you gotta do.” Taylor says and releases Brian’s arms. He figures he means it for himself as well.  
  
He kisses Brian and relaxes when Brian’s lips move against his own. A few more minutes of this and he won’t need a back rub.

* * *

  
Hell is real and it’s Wibbeaux, Montana.  
  
The devil’s alive or now, he should say dead, and his top minion is Uncle Teddy. He’s always known that Teddy was a snake and the fucker finally showed them his fangs. Too late of course, now he has two dead best friends and shot up shoulder as a testament to his treachery.  
  
He’s already talked to his Ma, and she’s seriously pissed and promising heapings of guilt that only an old school Jewish mother can dish out. She promises that she’ll be okay, that he’ll write, and he’ll quit smoking. He’ll even promise her he’ll marry one day and give her grandchildren if she’ll let him go so he can get out of town. When she finally gets around to asking about his special someone, she wants to know if he plans on just leaving town without seeing them either.  
  
Matty gives him smirks and smiles, and nearly drives them off the road, thankful that he doesn’t have to listen to anything like that. There’s the barest bit of envy there, because Benny only offers up indifference at best.  
  
Taylor doesn’t let her bombard him with any more questions. “Love you too, Ma. I’ll call you when things are cool.”  
  
Matty gives him a look from the corner of his eye, and keeps driving. “So--” He begins. “Blondie’s cool with that or is this some sort of surprise? You registered somewhere. Got a china pattern picked out and shit.” He teases.  
  
Taylor uses his good arm to give him a good old fashioned one finger salute. “Yeah, we’re registered at turn left and shut the fuck up.”  
  
They end up at Brian’s building and Taylor shuffles inside. Every flight of stairs bothers his shoulder a little more than the one before. By the time, he reaches Brian’s door, he’s cursed the son of a bitch who invented stairs.  
  
He knocks and waits until Brian opens the door, takes one look at him and seems to know the score in that eerie way of his.  
  
“So is this goodbye?” Brian asks coolly.  
  
Taylor rubs the back of his neck and winces, having jarred his shoulder again. “Actually, if you’ve got a suitcase and some codeine, I’d say it’s only a pause and I’d also be very grateful.”  
  
“You need a suitcase?”  
  
“No, but you do. This might not be riding off into the sunset in one of your cars, but it’s not over between us. At least, I don’t want it to be.”  
  
Brian walks across the threshold. “Why Taylor Reese, are you asking me out on a date?” Of course Brian’s has to be just a bit of a dick about it. Just enough to make Taylor snort.  
  
Scowls and smiles usually don’t go hand in hand, yet somehow Taylor makes it work. The tight line of his lips, down turned and dark, flips to sunny smile, teeth prominent and white—happy even, as he looks at Brian. “I dunno know. What I can tell you is it’s going to be one long ass date.”  
  
Brian’s smile is like sunshine in the summer at noon. “Yeah, give me a minute.” He says, already looking for the suitcase.  
  
And Taylor Reese, knockaround guy by skill and life, finally gets the knock he’s been waiting for.

 


End file.
